Book Night at the Library
by ChuckTheElf
Summary: Irma Pince oversees the Library of Hogwarts. It is a magical library - no. It's a Magical Library, and requires oversight on certain evenings.


Madame Irma Pince loved her home. She cherished every hour spent in its warm confines, cheerful fires spreading warmth during the cold winter nights and open windows spreading the cool breezes of summer. She treasured the lofty ceilings, ancient writings scrawled over its surface like the secrets hidden within some ancient mystery, pointing to joyful reunion if one but knew the secret ways. But above all, she loved how the books filled the stacks. It lay in how leather-bound tomes smelled of history and time, the newer parchment volumes cataloging recent developments wafted their scent of ink and stinging odors of glue.

Yes, Pince had a house to which people sent mail, and where her husband found her at the usual time. She loved him too, but he knew while his hand kept her heart safe, her soul belonged in the Library.

This was a night she would work late. A long night, and one for which she had prepared. A library was of Order, and tonight she would battle Chaos in ways the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot only knew second-hand.

Well, except perhaps Lord Black. _His_ family remembered the value in maintaining libraries.

It was a hard job, at times. When no one was around, the books became … less orderly. Of course there were students that understood this, even on a tangential basis. Young Hermione Granger seemed to instinctively know which tomes needed attention, and curated their need for recognition before chaos erupted. But the other students seemed to have the opinion that a magical library was just full of ink-covered paper, sandwiched between a pair of garish slabs of processed wood.

Idiots.

Did they not know? Hogwarts was not a secondhand repository for dead papers. It was a School of Magic. _Magic._

The last student scurried out, calling to a friend for assistance. She'd taken her full allotment of books, placing them in a bag like so many rocks, leaving in a fashion that bounced the bag in muddled jumps and jerks, likely damaging corners and scratching covers.

Madame Pince spent the next few minutes carefully re-laying the spine on a poor, mistreated book. A student had returned it in an abominable state, with the temerity to say it 'Wasn't her fault.' As if the sacred contract carried out for each student rendered them inculpable for damage? So what if another boy had thrown her book around – she had a wand, why did she not use it? What was the point of learning magic if she could not bring the will to defend what vows dedicated?

True, the boy would be punished. But her verbal flaying had sent the irritated flutterings behind the stacks into silence. She was the guardian of the students as much as she protected the books. Fail to remonstrate the despoiler of fair things, and vengeance would be wreaked beyond her reach.

Sharp snipping sounds soothed her sore nerves as she pared the spine into the exact shape. Gentle ministrations, lowering the last bit of leather backing onto the bared spine made the poor covers relax in relief. After that it was a matter of activating the suture spell, making tiny stitches to connect the leather edges together, and a firm massage to ensure proper setting.

Task complete, Pince began her nightly tour. The time was yet young, and she discovered two couples that somehow believed her sanctum a wondrous place for becoming intimate. Their danger was far greater than they'd realized, Dewey Decimal systems beyond their pathetic comprehension for the most part. Muggles knew of it, and their own libraries were shifting to accommodate such beauteous configurations. But wizards? The foolish imbeciles had selected the 800 grouping for their tryst; what's worse, their drifting had carried into the 800 _blit _Sagittarius, a region for romance novels.

She shuddered to think what might have happened had she skipped her rounds.

But all was safe, and the night was yet young. The full moon shone into her main hall, and its light illuminated the _sylvan _writings on the floor's mosaic. It was nearing time.

Pince readied herself, undoing the ties holding her hair back. It fell in long tresses, free at last. Her robes went by the coat rack, with her elegant dress proudly displayed. It was black, of course. Silver highlights shimmered along its edges, spiraling upwards as she moved, befitting an item created by the Tafetta & Tafetta team.

Pages rustled out of sight, motions attracting her attention whenever her gaze lifted beyond the immediate. Pince smiled, relaxing her focus. When one focused on _nothing_, everything else became of equal importance, stopping the activities of texts so inclined.

Every step was from memory. She knew the route like the back of her hand. Twelve steps along the front of her Seat of Authority, then a counterclockwise turn, and a long slow climb up fifty-three steps. The rustling books shuddered in place. There had once been a time when books grew feral, when smaller members had vanished overnight and their neighbors looked a little – just a tad – thicker. That still happened in some distant corners of the Library, but never on her watch.

Once more Pince turned, stepping up onto the balcony's bannister. Her balance was perfect, even in five inch heels, lofting her medium height upwards that needed distance. She turned an imperious look on the vast trove of knowledge spread out before and above her to all sides.

"Attend to me."

The rustling stopped. Then it grew, louder and louder until she could see with focused sight, full volumes rising from their places in the distance. It made her smile, these were old friends of hers, the Ancient Ones. Trusted books of such wisdom as to have earned a place in the Library with the scholars long since gone, sharing in their knowledge. They were old enough to have illuminated pages, gold-leaf decorating gilt edges and expensive inks manufactured from extinct species back when they were thought common.

Pince stepped off the railing, fearless. Her foot landed on one of the thick volume's cover, velvet covering under the heel preventing scratch damage. Predecessors were known to use diamond heels and not leave a scratch, but she was not yet at their level.

Over in the Restricted Section, a book fought its chains. Its rattling spawned a revolution in the wilder areas, where Necromancy instructions tried to reanimate loose pages left by careless students, and encyclopedia on the elemental attractions triggered small fires and storms of lightning. Pince walked a little faster, trusting the floating line of books to provide her safety.

At last she reached her goal, a chandelier hanging over the middle of the open floor. Its solid construction had withstood invasions, world wars, deranged Dark Wizards and Damn-him-Peeves. It felt as solid as the castle, because it _was _a part of the castle. When the foundations were laid, it had been in mind. When the battlements rose, it had been in place.

Safe on its rim, Pince gave a courteous nod to the Ancient Ones, and strode to the lectern poised in its center. Invisible from the floor, the lectern rose to chest height, a support for even the heaviest of books. A soft chime emanated throughout the room, quiet as a whisper but audible to everything within her fiefdom's realm.

"I shall read," her voice was calm. Regal. "I shall read from the Regulations, Chapter Fifteen."

An expectant silence settled over the Library. An old book, older by far than the Ancient Ones, rose from nothing and settled on the lectern. Its faded cover bore the scars of multiple lifetimes, its pages the scars of scrolls altered to book form. Wizards had adapted from scrolls to books earlier than muggles, but it was still an honorable thing to see such respect for ancient traditions.

"These are the Commands by which the Hours shall be had," she needed to brush up on Ancient English. Some of the phrases were hard to translate into her common tongue, but it was easy enough for a polyglot. "On the Days of Labor, shall the Hours be from the hour past dawn to the hour of the Setting Sun. This shall be the hours for each day, but for the Day of Rest. On this Day of Rest there shall be no great labors, and those who seek wisdom must first seek permission from the Master of the Library. In times of great need, the Keeper shall ensure the Library remains open at all times."

She closed the book, letting it fade into the ether from which it arose. "I shall now read the New Hours, in accordance to Regulations of Continuation, Chapter Twelve."

A second book touched down on her lectern, already open to her desired page. "Thus it shall be, that the Library shall remain open from eight ey-em to eight pee-em, Monday through Friday, excepting for holidays and days of great Repute. On the days of ending, Saturday and Sunday, shall the Library be open from ten ey-em to five pee-em. This is agreed upon by the Governors and Keeper of the Library. Thus it has been Written, so let it be Done."

Faint susurration grew in the lower shelves, rising to envelope the full stacks. The Library as a whole loved the newer hours. It meant more time with students, which meant more time _learning_.

"I will now," Madame Pince grasped the lectern with both hands. "Receive all petitions for repair. Patrols will resume in the usual hour. Violators of the Rule of Intact shall be bound. There shall be no dissent. A pleasant night to all."

She stepped back onto the reappearing bridge of knowledge. It would've been far easier to just direct her fall with a floating charm, but the ritual had been created well before self-levitation existed. Each book could bear her weight, but only if it remained motionless – leading to the construction of the Great Balcony.

"Verne, Dumas." Her clear call rang over the sound of moving paper.

Twin _popping _sounds responded, a pair of House Elves appearing on the Balcony, waiting.

"Thank you," she stepped off the last book, reaching solid stone. "Are you prepared?"

One of the elves bowed, the other maintained a combat-ready stance, bulbous eyes focused on the darkened shadows. "We is, Missus Scissors."

"Attend me. This night – what in Morgana's name?" Cacophonous racket of chains broke the reverential silence. Pince glared at the Restricted Section; the number of occasions she had an excuse to use the formal pompous language she'd deny reading were few and far between. "Find whatever is making that racket and bring it to me."

The elves looked at each other, hesitant. "It bes sounding like the Monsters Books, Missus Scissors."

"So – oh." Pince looked down at the elves. Each stood less than knee height, potent in magic but weak in body. "Never mind. I shall pursue the malcontent myself."

"No! No!" Verne stood tall, his beloved turtleneck shaking at the ends. The thought of even indirectly forcing a Mistress to labor seemed to shake the little being to his core. "I's gets it!"

His counterpart hissed something unintelligible before the pair _popped _out of sight.

Somewhere in the Restricted Section the rattling chains suddenly escalated into screams of rage, and a heavy crashing impact that Pince could feel from the Balcony. Books across the library shuddered out of place, fleeing to safety. It was, in a word, _disruptive._

Pince flicked her wrist. Her decorative garb flowed, tightening at crucial points. Flying from beneath her desk, a long, thin object twisted through the air, uncoiling as it flew undulating patterns. A thick pommel slapped into her off hand, trailing fifteen feet of enchanted dragon-hide and goblin-steel. The length swished upwards, tip curling into a motion that, tiny as it was, broke the sound barrier. Its resulting crack echoed throughout the library like an explosive hex.

Anger evident in every stride, Madame Pince stalked down the wide staircase. Her whip made serpentine motions as it followed her progress, twitching at each swaying step. Internally, Pince cursed all such constructs as _high heels_ and those that espoused their fashion. Having been one of those people at some distant past – she could not remember what she'd eaten for breakfast, which counted – her own list was extensive. After this evening was over, she'd have to requisition a book or three on sympathetic enchantments. Voodoo, the Carib Principality called it. Pain, knife-like pain would be a suitable reward for such short-sighted people.

Her steps lengthened once back on the main floor. The sound of clashing metal and high-pitched cries angered her further. The Library, her _Sanctum_, was being invaded!

_Popping _sounds brought Pince's steps to an abrupt halt. Before her a massive book worked its thick width over the struggling form of a elf, Verne she believed. Dumas was atop the book's spine, blasts of violet flame scorching the leather but affecting the old book not at all.

"Let Verne go! Nasty, filthy booksy!" Dumas raised one hand, an entire sphere of purple fury building up.

"Dumas. Get clear." Pince threw her arm back, sending the long lash spinning into the air. Dumas _popped _away, leaving the book free to close its bulk on the unfortunate Verne, crushing the little elf in its wood-derivative maw.

The pure Goblin-silver tip snapped around the book's spine, snaking its way beneath open pages until it reached the far side, coming up again to touch the whip's length once more. Pince flexed her wrist, binding the whip's end with itself, and heaved.

Angry flapping came from the Restricted Section. Pince looked up, and discovered a small flight of similar-looking books soaring in her direction.

Snarling, she drew her wand, aiming it in their midst, still pressuring the aggressive book into releasing the trapped little hero. "You dare defy me? In my place of Power? Be _Catalogued!"_

A long streak parted the darkness, emanating from her wand tip and striking the lead book square in the cover. It – shrieked – as well as something made of paper and magic could, tumbling end over end into the dark recesses of the Restricted Section. Another jet of wrath emerged from Pince's wand, sending another member of the oncoming flock back to its rightful place.

This was of course, an upsetting sensation for magical objects that held no capacity for fear, remorse, or respect. It was why no student was allowed in the Library after hours, without special permission. Granted, most nights passed in fare more sedate environs, but who could tell with enchanted material when some wizards' penchant for creating deadly jokes coincided with a witch's desire to spread information to every corner of the earth? Every book, every magazine was inspected for such things in _her _library. And _still _these things still attacked.

Gasping, Verne rolled free of the oversized book. "It wouldn't obey, Missus Scissors! It wouldn't obey, no it wouldn't! I tolds it to be nice and that it must be doing what Missus says but it keeps biting!"

"Really?" Pince yanked her whip hard, sending the book flying to the ground at her feet. One foot stomped its extended width down flat, bending pages against the stone flooring. "Enough."

Her wand came back up, and the whip sang a dangerous tune. "The rest of you. Back to your shelves or I will rotate stock. How many wish to be put into _Cold Storage _for _Sorting?"_

Half of the books made an abrupt turn, vanishing from sight. The other half hovered uncertainly. Pince raised her chin, looking down her nose with narrowed eyes. "Or are you looking for some _Editing?"_

The rest of the dark horde fled. Beneath her foot, the book slapped the gilt edges, squirming to break free.

"No, not you my pretty …" her wand pointed downward. "I have a _special _punishment in mind for you. I must provide an example should I not? And you … you disobeyed my direct order."

While the pages underfoot were filled with knowledge of dark arts, and were likely placed there by wizards whose interests would drive their more mundane magical neighbors insane, the book shuddered. Pince drove her heel just enough to make her point. "Let's begin."

* * *

Morning. Sunbeams frolicked through the upper windows, plunging into Library's clean air, splashing puddles of bright golden light on the floor. The shelves stood in their solid way, warm woods bringing out the comforting feeling that only solid wood could do. Students browsed the shelves, seeking answers to problems both imagined and real – to a wizard, the difference was very little. But for once the distant emotion of desperation was gone. Exams were over and the frantic drive to memorize just one more fact, to acquire a little more detail had vanished.

Madame Pince looked up from her desk into the smiling face of her superior. "Headmaster, how may I assist you?"

The ancient wizard shared a heartwarming smile. "Thank you, Irma. I see you are enjoying the fine day?"

"Of course," one perfectly manicured eyebrow rose. "It is a beautiful day to read."

"Indeed, indeed," Dumbledore chuckled. "Did you create the new display in honor of the news?"

Her smile never appeared, but there was a certain look around her lips that suggested emotion. "The new children's display? It has been something I have been meaning to arrange for some time. I happened upon some resources recently, and decided now is not the time to delay. Happy coincidence, I'm afraid."

"All the better," Dumbledore was practically beaming now. "Miss Sprout's sister will be bringing her newborn daughter after the end of the semester. She will _love _your children's display. Wherever did you get the idea? I have not seen such a collection of picture books in years. They have become quite the sensation among the female population."

"Oh, really?" Pince did not turn in the direction of the crowded area, the young women squealing as a book on cute, fuzzy ducks ambled across a safe table. Its cuteness was matched only by the collection of fuzzy books taking advantage of the open space. Their gamboling antics brought giggles and cheers among their crowd – a few older students appeared to even be taking bets on their playful antics. Bumping into each other, clumsily falling upon each other – adorable to see.

"Hmmm," she smiled back up at the headmaster. "You know how it is. Sometimes, opportunities just jump out at you. Either you take advantage of them, or let them fly away."


End file.
